


Left Unsaid

by inkedinserendipity



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, a device used for toasting, alcohol reference, also thank goodness there was more bones in this one, also winona gives jim a piece of her mind. honestly jim why would you even consider admiralty, and deals with emotions, i love bones, in which the triumvirate has a discussion about Things, maybe even healthily? for once?, more like, nobody is drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7621615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's James T. Kirk's birthday. As per custom, he calls his mother. As per custom, she has several things to say about his appearance, his performance in Starfleet, and why on Earth he's even considering the post of Vice-Admiralty. </p><p>In which Jim must deal with a whole room of old-faced Admirals, an exasperated mother, and an emotionally troubled First Officer <em>and</em> Chief Medical Officer, all the evening after he's saved the world. Typical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> There are several references in this piece to the works (masterpieces, really), of KCS. If you have not yet read through their postings on fanfiction.net, I would _highly_ recommend that you do so. If you enjoy scandalous amounts of bromance, quick-witted humor and half-Vulcan eyebrows defying every known law of physics, their fics are the place for you.

Winona Kirk - or Lieutenant Kirk, as she is known aboard the _U.S.S. Bolívar_ \- appears onscreen with a cheery _pop!_ of the video feed and the back-half of a static-blurred dismissal. 

Though Jim’s transmission hits home after hours of sunlight in the day have decayed, Winona Kirk is off-shift. Afternoon hours are hers, as per personal custom: a gift from the Captain, unorthodox though it might seem (though Jim can’t fault Captain Menchú for that - his own laxness with Bones bears enough resemblance to her affectionately-termed “siestas”).

In the background of the video, Lieutenant Kirk’s wall bears a gaping cubic three-foot by three-foot gap. Suspended inside this niche are hundreds of knick-knacks, or “souvenirs”, as Kirk affectionately terms them. It’s her collection. Ever since Jim was a small child, Winona Kirk collected small doodads - spare nuts and bolts dropped on the side of the road; ornaments from the scarce vacations they could take Terran-side; the flower crowns he made for her, when he was too young to understand where “heaven” was and why his father wasn’t coming back. 

Now, her collection has swelled, both in size and splendor. The custom-made gravitational fluctuators that were Chief Engineer Davis’s pet project for several months before their installation spill over with Kirk’s memoirs. She has replaced crowns of daisies with a spool of crimson wire, the strands of which are used in Altoric lyres, replaced spare nuts and bolts with tributes to the _Bolívar_. Also floating in the full space, Jim sees, is a faintly-pulsing green vase that he recalls from the shores of Delta IV, a planet whose oil trade benefited from the _Bolívar_ ’s offer of Federation alliance; a jade-carved figurine of a Foltoran heart, a large bearlike species that had for some time terrorized the people of Xano, until their leaders persuaded the Federation Council to send a starship on detour and stop the beasts (mostly, Jim thinks wryly, because Xano holds at its core a vast reserve of dilithium, but he pushes the thought aside); and a golden cloth of legendary, silicon-infused material, which Lieutenant Kirk once rigged, along with the primitive tools of a deserted, Class M planet, to function as a makeshift communications unit. Like her son, Winona Kirk forces rewrites of Starfleet textbooks on the yearly. 

“Jimmy!” Winona Kirk exclaims as the door _whoosh_ es shut behind her, closing off her previous conversation. With practiced motions, she traces her finger along the armrest of her chair, and it about-faces and zooms toward the monitor. 

At the close of a long, long afternoon, James T. Kirk allows himself a smile. “Hi, Mom.” 

“It’s good to see you again. You look terrible.” 

“Wish I could say the same for you.” 

Winona Kirk laughs, throwing her head back and exposing the cool red collar of her uniform. At his mother’s laugh, Jim can almost taste Terran apple pie, dripping with cinnamon, and he battles down the weight of nostalgia that settles on his chest. “As if you could ever,” she replies wryly, arching an elegant gray eyebrow in his direction. The gesture, so familiar and yet so different (the eyebrow gray and not black, curved and not slanted, the mouth smiling instead of beaming only through eyes of brown) forces him to swallow, hard. “We are both well-aware that I am _always_ presentable, Jim-boy. Keep wishing.” 

“Even fighting Foltora?” 

“Especially then.” Winona leans out of the viewframe for a brief moment, then reappears with a glass of water in hand. As she studies her boy, she tugs the display monitor closer over the fine wood of her desk (authentic Iowan wood, from what he remembers of their very first conversations - an unusual birthday gift from a Captain to a Communications Officer, but then again, Jim has bent several Starfleet regulations regarding his First and Medical Officers, so he’s not quite one to talk). “You look unwell.” 

“So you’ve said. Not even a happy birthday for your favorite son!”

“Happy birthday,” she repeats dryly. “Don’t play those games with me, Jimmy, you cannot make the ‘read’ sign on my messages disappear, however hard you try to hack our communications server. I know you saw my well-wishes. That,” she says, levelling a finger at her son, “is one game I will always beat you at. Besides, you know I’m right, Jim-boy. You look atrocious.” 

Jim shakes his head and follows suit, pulling his monitor closer and letting his grin creep farther and farther up his cheeks. Despite himself, he can feel his eyes softening at the sight of his mother’s tolerant exasperation. “Saving the world will do that to you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You saved a Starbase, at best.” 

Jim tries arching an eyebrow back, and doesn’t manage - both eyebrows travel about an inch upward. That’s one thing he’ll never best his mother (or Spock) in, then. He’ll concede that one victory. 

For a moment, Winona eyes her son’s expression, eyebrows arched perfectly in response, then both of them burst out laughing. On Jim’s end, at least half of his amusement stems from badly-contained hysteria. 

Despite her trite words, his mother’s no fool. Where the general population may not have grasped the danger of Krall’s weapons, Winona certainly realized. This afternoon could have gone so, horribly wrong. 

It is because of Jim Kirk that this day, his birthday, does not make Federation textbooks as the largest genocide since Vulcan. 

Winona takes another swig of the drink in her hands, downing half of the clear liquid in one go. Water, Jim knows. His mother doesn’t touch alcohol, partially for personal principles and partially because Menchú hates the stuff. When she sets the glass down on the wood, a thin layer of slider set carefully between the authentic desk and the water dripping down the sides of her cup, her full attention turns toward her son. 

It’s a bit like being X-rayed, Jim notes wryly. He feels distinctly as if _he_ were a Foltoran, assessed for his strengths and his weaknesses. Or maybe as if he were a rough-mouthed Terran child, assessed for his favorite dessert. His mother can flip between the two in a blink. 

Either way, Winona concludes her dissecting sweep, and opens the conversation with an ever-tactful, “We both know Yorktown isn’t what’s bothering you. Spit it out, Jimmy.” 

Jim scrounges a scoff from somewhere in the depths of his acting repertoire. “Nothing’s bothering me.” 

Winona’s eyebrows make it clear she’s not buying her son’s flimsy refutation. “Jim.” 

His chair squeaks as he leans backward on his chair, digging his shoulderblades into the soft backing cushion and running a hand through his hair. If there’s one person he could never lie to, Jim reflects ruefully, it’s his mother. 

Through the windows of his temporary lodging in Yorktown, Jim can see the _Enterprise 1701-A_ , majestic despite its skeletal state. Already, Jim can envision the ship she will become. Beyond the tinted glass, he can see technicians, looking the size of mere insects rather than actual, human people, scrambling along the hull of the _Enterprise_ , calling cheerful greetings and gruffly snatching worktools from their comrades. It’s strange, Jim muses idly, fingers dancing over the tip of the table, how he can vaguely discern the expressions on their faces but hear none of their joy from behind his room. 

“It’s Spock,” Jim confesses finally. “He’s acting strangely.”

Out of his peripheries, Jim sees Winona inch somehow closer to the screen. Even from light-years away, his mother has heard of the budding friendship between himself and the half-Vulcan. Not that it would be hard, he reflects wryly - violating the Prime Directive for a crew member, however highly ranked, is unheard-of. Well, unheard-of before Jim joined Starfleet. “Strangely for Spock.” 

“Yeah. Even for Spock. There’s something he’s not telling me.”

“Are you certain this is not simply because of the death of the ambassador Sarek?”

“How did you -”

“You are not the only ship with whom New Vulcan holds close ties.” Winona reminds him. “Spock and the ambassador were close, were they not?” 

Jim lets a dry chuckle escape his lips. “Like father and son,” he confirms, and his head thunks against the cool steel of his chair, exposing his neck to the video screen. It’s nothing like the firm, warm metal of his command chair - this chair is cold and rigid against his neck, straining his spine. “This is different though. He told me about that, at least. But this is something else. I just feel like - like he’s still holding secrets.” 

“Well.” Winona Kirk folds her hands together. “First things first, Jimmy, look at the vidscreen when you’re talking, you know that what you’re doing is rude. The ceiling cannot possibly be more interesting than my face. Second things second, what gives you that impression?” 

Sighing, Jim returns his gaze to the video screen. “He won’t meet my gaze. And...and when I brought it up, he just gave this vague answer, like ‘we’ll talk about it later’ or something.”

“Vulcans are known for misdirection.” 

“There’s a difference between...between misdirecting and whatever the hell Spock is doing, Mom,” Jim replies archly, throwing his hands in the air for a brief second. “Normally, when he’s lying to my face - or _rerouting my inquiries_ , sorry - he can at least look me in the eyes. He didn’t do that. At all.” 

“Hmmmm,” Winona hums, sipping at her drink. “Have you tried asking him about it?” 

Jim blinks. “What, just going up to him and asking ‘Hey, Spock, I know you’re lying to my face and I want to know why’?” 

Winona shrugs, staring her son in the eyes. 

He huffs out an exasperated breath. “Well...no.” 

Winona tips her glass toward her son. “Could be worth a try.” 

“Could get me another lie.” 

“Would be better than doing nothing,” she replies evenly. She waits for a reply, and gets none. “Jim, what are you so afraid of?” 

“I’m not -”

“As Leonard would say, _bull_.” 

Winona takes another calm sip of water and watches the emotions flash by on Jim’s face. He uses his sleeves to scrub at his face, as though he could infuse will into his core by the golden fabric on his arms. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to wait long for him to speak. Must’ve been a truly long day - her son isn’t often emotional like this, and she prides herself as one of the few souls who has earned his trust, even thousands of miles from him. “I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Jim says quietly. 

Comprehension flits across her brain. Less for the words - that could mean anything; according to the official report, Commander Spock had at one point been impaled - more for the sheer misery that accompanies his tone. “You’re afraid he’s leaving.” 

Jim shifts in his seat. “Yes.” 

“Jim,” she sighs, “I can’t tell you what to say. How to bring this up, even. I don’t know him like you do.” 

“Sometimes I don’t even think _I_ know him.” Jim’s hands tighten into fists around his interruption, knuckles barely visible on the bottom edge of the projection, but Winona’s eyes flash downward to catch the motion regardless. He doesn’t bother unballing them. “He’s never comfortable around me, always hiding things. Mom, how can I call him a friend when I can’t trust him?”

“Jim,” Winona rebukes sharply. Now, real anger flashes in her eyes. “You’re a fool, Jim, if you would doubt the loyalty of a man who would give his life for yours - and, according to your own words, Jim, has tried several times. You really believe that you cannot trust him?”

The captain winces perceptibly, shrinking a bit from the vidscreen. Despite himself, he can feel something like regret pulling at the bottom of his stomach. How many times has Spock done something foolhardy - something _illogical_ \- for the sake of his captain? His head shakes a nearly-imperceptible amount. 

“Let me put it this way,” she continues, softening a bit. “Your first year as Captain, you mentioned Spock by name in nine percent of your transmissions. Now, you total sixty-eight percent. Starships run on loyalty, Jim. And from what I’ve heard - most of which is what you told me, might I add - you have no reason to doubt Spock.” 

“Mom, he’s lying to me. I can tell.” 

“There is a difference between lying and feeling uncomfortable with a given topic. Understanding that Vulcans do not lie - and this half-Vulcan included, especially to you - I rather consider it would be the former. Ask.”

Jim runs a shaking arm over his forehead again. Seconds trickle by, leaving Jim staring at his feet and Winona watching her screen, concerned. 

But when Jim looks up, his eyes are clearer. “Thanks, Mom.” 

“I take it you’ve acquiesced to my superior knowledge.” 

“If Bones asks why I’m being sentimental tonight, it’s entirely of my own volition.”

"Of course," Winona Kirk nods, satisfied at her son’s return to his typical demeanor. “Now, speaking of emotional issues, Jim-boy. What’s all this you’ve been panicking to me about Vice Admiralty?” 

“I have not been panicking!” Jim bristles in his seat. 

Winona levels him a dry glare. “I received three transmission requests in a span of two days not three weeks ago, my dear son. In not-so-many words, yes, you were panicking.”

Looking down and away from the screen, Jim picks at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve, studiously avoiding his mother’s gaze. However, despite his indecisive body language, his words come out clearly - a telling sign of budding diplomatic skill clear to a Communications officer. Maybe, Winona thinks wryly, that Vulcan friend of Jim’s could teach his illogical human a thing or two about controlling body language. “I’m not sure, Mom.” 

Winona takes a long moment to study her son’s face. His full attention is fixed on some nonexistent flaw in his shirt. In fact, he appears to be unravelling the fabric holding it together more than repairing any sort of damage. His head slumps against his chest, and his posture is, simply put, horrifying - it rather looks as though Jim lost his spine as well as the top half of his last shirt in the mission of earlier this morning. “Well. Allow me to introduce you to one of Latja’s favorite thinking techniques.” 

“Thinking techniques?” he repeats incredulously. “What is this, a thought matrix for Vulcans?” 

“Sixty- _nine_ percent,” Winona replies, irony tinging her voice. “And no, you well know our medical officer is human. Latja’s revolutionary technique consists of a pro-con table. See, what you do, Jim-boy, is make a list of all the _good_ things that can come up as a result of a certain decision, and compare it against all the _bad_ -”

“I know, Mom, I know what a pro-con table is,” Jim says irritably. “I’m just not....”

Instantly, Winona drops the humoring patronization in her voice, replacing it with heartfelt concern. “Talk in through, then.” She sets the cup to the side, half in the view of the vidscreen, and turns her full attention to encouraging her son. “What are your thoughts?” 

Jim frowns at her. Absently, he unfastens the golden Starfleet insignia from his uniform and turns it slowly in his hands. “You sound like Bones.” 

“A compliment, then. C’mon, Jim-boy, no prevarication. Talk to me.” 

A full minute passes before Jim appears to find the words. With one long, lasting look through the windows and another hand brushed aggravatedly through his hair, Jim heaves a sigh and leans forward. From this angle, Winona can see a bruise stark against the tanned skin of his shoulder, turning livid and purple. “It just doesn’t feel right any more. What is there to explore, what’s...what’s out there that we’re finding? What good are we doing, really?”

“Pros and cons, Jimmy.” 

“Right.” He shakes his head. “Pros, then. Um....well, for once, no more deep space. No more pushing boundaries, destroying civilizations, toying with the lives of crew members. Peace and safety. Time to spend with the friends I have, less feeling like I’m a dirty piece of coal that Starfleet’s pressure-cooking into a diamond.” He clears his throat and sets his head on his hand, tucking the insignia against his cheekbone with a thumb, drumming the top of the table with his free hand, a frenetic pace about twice the tempo of his heartbeat. She can hear the magnified thud against the material of the table clearly, even through their shaky connection. 

“Cons.” A long pause. He straightens, as though delivering a mission report. His hands still, then start, then still again as he thinks, twiddling the Starfleet gold between his fingers. His clouded gaze flicks above the comm-screen, out of her view and through the window, where a crane swings the _Enterprise_ ’s Bridge into its preliminary position. When he speaks, the list is clear and concise. “No more _Enterprise_ ,” Jim says eventually. “No more crew. No more missions.”

Winona sits back in her chair, leaving her son to his thoughts for a moment while she turns the situation over in her head. 

One thing is stark clear to Winona. Well, two. First off - Jim doesn’t want to leave Starfleet. He’s missing his father, and if she can read the situation correctly (which she undoubtedly can), he’s also missing himself. For a brief moment, she wonders how no one _else_ has noticed this issue pressing on their Captain’s shoulders, then remembers that his two best friends are a half-Vulcan trying to out-Vulcan the most Vulcan there are and an irascible Southern doctor with a soft spot for Georgian peaches and hollering wayward Captains back into Sickbay or he _will_ give them live vaccinations for chondritis, so _help_ him. 

Plus, Jim’s second reason - that is, his crew - can quite easily be narrowed down to about four or five people. Sure, her son mingles with the _Enterprise_ crew, but not enough to list them as a reason for staying. Another thing he’ll learn during his captaincy. But that’s a lesson for later. 

Evidently, Jim has neither realized that his desire to leave stems from peculiar reasons of joining in the first place, nor that his desire to stay comes from the idiots that he calls _friends_.

Winona decides to play devil’s advocate. “Well, seems like that second list was a lot shorter,” she comments, eyeing her son’s expressions keenly.

“I know,” her son breathes, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. Still, his eyes are fixed away from her, staring at the starship she cannot see being created. “I know it does, but for some reason, leaving just doesn’t feel right.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know, Mom!” 

Winona lets his own words wash over him, waiting for the point just before his own frustration and self-doubt will turn his questions to angry accusations, or worse, ill-formed decisions. His appointment with the Admiralty is in less than ten minutes. Frankly, at this point, she’s not sure what he would decide, were he to find himself in front of Carmack and his crew this very moment. 

Seconds trickle by and Winona studies her son keenly for signs of agitation, and finds plenty. Right before he combusts, right before he starts yelling in true McCoy style...there. “Jim, what would you miss most?” she prods quietly.

Given something to latch onto, Jim’s eyes jump away from the ship. Thankfully, his hands still their agitated pacing. However, he takes less than two seconds to reply. “The ship. The _Enterprise_.”

With that inborn knack of motherhood, Winona sees instantly through his lies. “Really?” questions, letting her skepticism faintly color her tone. Not too much, not to scare him off, but enough to remind him that her ploys won’t work against her.

“Yes. Well, I don’t know, Mom.” His defeated admission is quiet, doubting. “Maybe not.” 

This is a classic case, as the tried-and-true Iowan phrase goes - the grass is always greener. Jim’s problem is simple; he can’t imagine Starfleet without Spock and Bones at his side, where they should be. Try as he might, he can’t imagine losing them. The source of his ‘cognitive dissonance’, her inner Latja provides, is his sheer inability to admit, stubborn boy that he is, that he would miss them. Even to himself. 

How to demonstrate it to him...? 

He stares, shoulders slumped, at the Starfleet insignia in his hands. Winona takes a moment to join her son in staring at the badge, glancing briefly to the matching one adorning her red uniform. Then, with a mental clap like a thunderbolt, inspiration strikes. 

With deft hands, she unclips the trinket from her uniform and holds it up to the vidscreen. Catching a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye, Jim looks up. “The strange thing about these,” she muses quietly, “is that they’re triangles. Don’t they look like triangles, Jim-boy?” 

“Mom, what the hell.” 

“Don’t they?” 

“Sure,” he responds, bewildered and wide-eyed, staring at his mother as though she’d lost her mind. Right, as if _she_ were the one who needed help. 

“What would happen if you were to take out a point?” she asks. 

“Mom -”

“Jim,” she interrupts coolly, breaking off from her ramblings aloud to stare her son intently in the face. “What would happen?”

“It’d be a line?” her little genius replies, his answer more a question than an actual response. “Mom, what -”

“Exactly. It would no longer be a triangle. If it lost one of its points, it would just be a line. Flat. Ineffective.” She turns it over in her hands, affecting a thoughtful countenance. Hopefully, her little boy is thinking along with her. ”The line - a much less structurally satisfying shape. Weaker, smaller, lesser.” 

If possible, Jim’s eyes get only bigger. “Mom, if this is supposed to be telling me something, I don’t get it.” 

Winona draws in a patient breath, and lets it back out. _Goldshirts_ , honestly. He and Menchú must be collaborating on ways to act even more obtuse. For a moment, she considers making an obtuse pun, before her Communications soul screams at her that the timing is so off for a joke. 

“You know what they’re calling you, nowadays. You, Leonard, and Spock.” 

It’s clear from his expression that Jim has zero idea what she’s talking about. With a faint smile playing around her lips, she sets her elbows against the table, palms holding the insignia out to him, three-pointed outline still clearly visible. “The Triumvirate, Jim-boy. That’s what they’re calling you.” 

Jim’s eyes widen the tiniest crack further, and his jaw hangs open in shock as his remarkably-quick brain processes her meaning. 

But before Jim can react to that in any way, Bones’s voice sounds from outside the room. “Jim, I swear on my mother’s green earth that if you take one more second in there, you’re gonna be late for your meeting.” 

Jim takes two-point-three seconds to gape at her like a caught fish, before blinking awake. And just like that, the spell is broken. Jim’s eyes, widened to their fullest extent, snap away from her face and briefly over his shoulder, toward the door. “Be out in a second, Bones!”

“You don’t have a second, Jim!” 

“Give me one anyway!”

“On your head be it,” the man mutters, clearly giving up on his errant captain. 

Jim turns back to the vidscreen with not-quite-a-sigh. His eyes shut for a long, long time, seconds-and-a-half too long to be a mere blink, before refocusing on her face. When his eyes open again, he’s smiling. His smile is patently Jim Kirk, cocky and enigmatic all at once, full of bluster and charm. “That’s my cue,” he tells her disarmingly, half-standing from his chair.

She bites down on a laugh. Oh, the fickleness of youth. “Go, go on, then. I hope you’ve made up your mind?” 

“Of course. I’ve always got a plan.” He stands, fixes his uniform, rumpled from slouching, and turns back to the monitor with a grin softened around the edges. “Thanks, Mom.” 

With a flick of his hands, he ends the call. 

Winona sits back in her chair and spends a brief moment quietly contemplating her insignia before fastening it back over her heart with a small smile. 

 

“You, Mister Spock, have been engaging in a human ritual known as _hoodwinking_.”

At Jim’s side, Bones nearly sprays his drink - the real Orion brandy, not the diluted version Jim’s holding and certainly not the spice tea for which Spock opted over the strange human ritual of intoxication - all over the nice white tablecloth in Jim’s temporary room. 

Hiding his amusement, Jim sips idly at his drink and watches his First Officer’s eyebrows make their inevitable ascent into his hairline. “Pardon, Captain?”

“Name’s Jim, Spock,” Jim says, as though Spock needs reminding. Maybe one day, he’ll get Spock to use the damn word. “It’s a colloquialism, you see. Means -”

“I am aware of the word’s meaning; I am confused, however, about the context in which you intend to insinuate my wrongdoing.” 

“That’s a lot of words for _what the hell, Jim_ ,” Bones observes archly, watching Spock’s inclined eyebrows with a muted grin and a (softened, out of consideration for the earlier stab wound) elbow to Spock’s ribs. 

Spock ducks out of the way of Bones’s elbow with near-feline grace and a physically-impossible continued ascension of his left eyebrow. “To avoid your senseless human adages, I meant only to express my confusion.” 

Jim snorts around his glass, then sets it down, turning instead to search the expression of his First. To most, he’s sure, Spock’s face seems impassive, save the Gods-save-me-from-these-humans eyebrows. But even Vulcans have tells, and after three years, Jim flatters himself to think he knows Spock pretty well. 

He also, therefore, knows when something’s up. “Well, Mister Spock, you meant to tell me something in the turbolift, before you quite awkwardly changed your mind.” 

Spock shifts in his seat. Actually shifts, movements stilted and everything. Jim takes another swig of his drink around the disappointment growing in his mouth. Three years, even after _three years_ , Spock’s still hiding things from him. “I intended to tell you of Ambassador Spock’s death, Captain.” 

Again with the _Captain_. “And was that the only thing you intended to tell me, Spock?” 

The Vulcan’s eyes shift awkwardly downward, once more pulling his gaze away from Jim’s. Jim suppresses the urge to sigh disappointedly. Yet another part of the diplomacy game he’d been throwing himself into learning - understanding when your opponent is lying, or in this case, reproportioning the truth. “Negative.” 

With one word, Jim’s heart sinks even further. He opens his mouth to continue along this line of inquiry, then Bones fidgets in his seat.

Jim turns a shocked glance on his CMO. Yep, there’s something undeniably fishy in his CMO’s face, and it has nothing to do with the salmon Chekov prepared for Kirk’s birthday dinner. “You know what it is,” he says, and can’t help the accusatory tone that comes out of his mouth. 

“I might have an inkling.”

“Bones -”

“It’s not something I’m gonna explain for him.” 

Collaboration against a commanding officer. When did he lose the trust of both his CMO and his First? 

Jim turns his expectant gaze toward Spock, who seems to physically _quail_ , sinking back into his seat a bit. Just like that, the exultant mood of Jim’s birthday party turns dense and heavy, the ambience becoming accusatory and ticking with distrust. “What was it, then, Spock?” he asks, and without his consent his mouth says “and the whole truth this time, please, Mister Spock. None of this Vulcan prevarication, if you please.” 

Just like that, Spock’s expression shutters closed, and Jim curses his own big mouth. _Tact_ , Jim. “Shit, I didn’t -”

“Indeed, you are correct, _Captain_ ,” Spock replies coldly, and even McCoy winces at the ice in his tone. Spock’s mad enough to not point out the illogicalities of Vulcan lying. “Like yourself, I intended to leave the ship.” 

Jim’s mind blanks for a second. He forgets the regret of his previous statement in the shock. “What?” he asks blankly, staring at Spock to determine if this is a prank. His heart is suddenly thudding, hard, against the inside of his wrist. God help him, if the half-Vulcan is lying, he’s going to stab his First in the liver.

Through a wad of cotton Bones must’ve stuffed in his ears, he hears Spock say, from far away, “As I said, I meant to resign from duty in Starfleet.” 

Jim’s vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open. For some strange reason, worry bubbles up in his stomach and through the lining, burning more and more like panicked nausea against the back of his throat. For all Jim had talked about becoming Vice Admiral, he’d always thought - this is what his mother had been trying to - Spock can’t _leave_ , no more than Bones can, no more than Jim can saw off his own arm. He can’t lose them. Either of them. That...is unthinkable, even for a man who has strode through hell and back three times. 

Three times, Jim faced death. And all three times, his First and his CMO - his friends - walked with him. 

“You wanted to - where are you going to _go_?” 

“New Vulcan.” Something of his panic must have shown on his face, because Spock’s tone, while still cool, is not as icy as before. Spock’s long fingers haven’t wrapped around his mug of soothing tea in whole minutes, and Jim’s own are shaking around his cup. “I wished to follow in the footsteps of the Ambassador, to ensure the survival of my race. It is, after all, only logical to prioritize the many over the one.” 

Jim feels like he’s going to be sick. “You’re not - Spock, you’re not actually going, are you?” 

Spock studies his face for a long moment. The smoldering in his throat grows sharper and sharper, twisting the insides of his stomach. His grip around his cup tightens, vision graying around the edges. The surface of the liquid in his cup ripples in his grasp, distorting his own reflection until it is unrecognizable. Suddenly, Jim becomes aware that shivers are running down his back, cold and prickling.

Spock’s going to Vulcan. Spock is leaving. God, if Spock - he can’t -

Spock then shakes his head, appearing to all the world the epitome of calm-and-collected. Jim, though, can see the faint anger that melts off his face. “Negative, Captain,” the half-Vulcan replies eventually, “In the end, I...recalled those aboard ship. Those whose absences I would feel.” 

Like a warp engine powering down to zero, the lines of tension holding Jim upright cut abruptly, leaving him sagging in the chair. From inside the diluted glass of ale, his own reflection stares dismally at him, worry lines clear on his face. His eyes are still wide, pupils small, mouth slack, shoulders back, chest forward. Jim shakes his head at himself, wondering at the sudden fullness of his lungs, the pleasant emptiness in his stomach, warm where he had previously felt so cold. And yeah, that’s definitely not a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his lips, reflected in his glass. 

“Awwww,” Bones drawls, filling the silence where Jim cannot. “You sayin’ you were gonna miss us, Spock?”

“A number of those among us. The Captain, perhaps. Lieutenant Uhura. Chekov and Sulu, possibly.” Spock’s lips twitch upward in the tiniest of grins. “I say nothing about my emotional status regarding yourself, Doctor McCoy.” 

“Good riddance. Ain’t like I was gonna miss you either, you hobgoblin.” 

“Then you shall be quite disappointed to learn that I will not soon remove myself as a burr in your side, Doctor.”

“And I’ll be no less for it, Mr. Spock,” Bones huffs into his drink, a small smile edging around his face. “Maybe we’ll get some peace and quiet aboard without you blabberin’ on about your _warp-physics_ and _interstellar-computations_ and other mental doohickeys.” 

“I would presume that you would be quite bereft upon learning of my absence. After all, I have been instrumental in expanding your vocabulary.”

“What - my vocabulary doesn’t _need_ expanding, Spock, it was perfectly fine before you stepped a green foot aboard!” 

“That would be quite a clever double-meaning, Doctor, if I believed you meant it intentionally. However, I am obliged to point out that your usage of polysyllabic words has increased seventeen percent since the inception of our five-year mission aboard the _Enterprise_.”

“You were _counting_?” 

“Gentlemen,” Kirk intervenes, trying to smooth out the knots in his throat. He had come so close, so terrifyingly close, to losing his First Officer. Despite himself, there’s a slight tremor running thickly through his voice. “Well, Spock, I should say. I’m glad you decided to stay aboard.” 

Spock blinks, a genuine, human-looking, taken-aback blink. He detaches entirely from antagonizing Bones to turn his full attention to his Captain. The half-Vulcan apparently fumbles for words before responding, “I...appreciate the sentiment, Captain. And...Jim. I, too, must express my relief that you have chosen to remain Captain of the _Enterprise_.” 

Jim lets out a hearty laugh, certainly _not_ tinged with relief, causing Bones to nearly inhale his drink, and just stops himself from assaulting Spock’s shoulder with a friendly punch. _Touch-telepath_ , his brain reminds him at the very last moment, seeing the resigned stiffness that locks Spock’s spine. Instead, Jim settles for a beaming nod, hoping that Spock can pick up on his relief without needing a pinch or something. 

Spock catches the aborted motion with a surprised flicker of his eyes and a slightly-elevated eyebrow. It takes a second, Jim watches, amused, but eventually the dots connect in that scary-smart Vulcan brain, and Jim’ll bet his next ten hours of shore leave that the sudden softness in Spock’s eyes has got something to do with his brain’s abrupt reminders. Mental note to Jim: lay off the friendly punches with Spock. Hit Bones instead. 

That would explain a lot, actually, about Spock - his discomfort early aboard, his rigidity around such volatile humans. Hoo boy, Jim’s been punching him since the beginning, he remembers with a frisson of regret. No wonder Spock was thinking about leaving. 

So much the better he chose to stay. 

So much the more he thinks of Jim and Bones. 

That thought sends a ray of warmth on par with that of the best Orion ale through Jim’s heart. “You know, apparently the Federation’s got a name for us,” Jim says, right after downing another small swig of ale. It burns pleasantly through his throat, washing away the regret of earlier. 

Actually, that’s probably got less to do with the alcohol and more to do with the fondness still present in Spock’s eyes. 

“What, two biggest idiots this side of the Beta Quadrant?” Bones guesses wryly.

“I am no fool,” Spock retorts before Jim can get a word in edgewise. “And I assure you, Doctor McCoy, you commit the same number of human follies as the Captain.” 

“Do not!”

“Do too,” Spock responds with such lack of inflection and _human_ humor that Bones chokes off mid-word. 

Bones is staring. “I thought you were gonna say somethin’ about how that was illogical.” 

Spock’s mouth decidedly does not quirk up into a half-grin. “I considered the notion, but quickly realized that you would discard it. Clearly, Doctor McCoy, you find humor resembling that of human children far more fascinating.” 

“Are you callin’ me a _child_ , you talkin’ motherboard-”

“Gentlemen,” Kirk says again, rubbing his head. Is this how mothers feel? “Must you bicker over every word I say?” 

“Yes,” says Bones at the exact same time Spock replies, “Negative, Captain.” 

“ _Anyway_.” Jim decides not to touch on that eerie synchronicity, eyeing them with the trepidation due his fearsome duo of Science and Medical. No wonder he’d caught Ensign Stevens downing those five cups of coffee morning Mess three weeks ago. That’d been Medical’s exam, and Stevens does Biomedical, if Jim recalls correctly. Living under the combined scrutiny of his loyal First Officer and CMO must be hell. He briefly considers promoting everyone who studied jointly under Spock and Bones. “As I was saying, they’ve got a nickname for us.” His hand flutters toward his chest for the barest of moments before he looks them both in the eyes. “The Triumvirate.” 

“Fascinating,” Spock nods.

Bones chokes. “The _what_?”

“The Triumvirate, Bones. Team of three.” 

“I know what the word means, Jim,” Bones dismisses him irritably. “I just didn’t think it was, y’know....”

Surprisingly, it is Spock who first picks up on McCoy’s hesitation - Jim’s still in the dark. What, does Bones think their nickname would leave out the _captain_? Oh, they’d all be dead several times over if not for Jim’s heroics, thanks very much. Jim’ll see how well Bones’s misconception holds up when he finds himself locked into Sickbay with nothing but an irritable half-Vulcan for company after a four-hour conference with Admiralty when Starfleet clears the _Enterprise_ to leave Yorktown.

“Doctor, do not doubt your integral presence on our ship,” Spock says, eyebrows contracting almost imperceptibly. 

Jim blinks. _What?_

“Heck no, Spock. That’s not...it’s not the ship,” Bones explains briefly, unable to meet their eyes. Instead, the Southern doctor busies himself in his brandy, taking an unwisely large swig. “Oh, never mind.” 

Jim shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between Bones and Spock cluelessly. For once, he’s the one at an emotional loss. No way Spock’s picking up on illogical human emotions while Jim’s missing out. Is he missing something? 

“Doctor,” Spock says in a quiet tone, gentle, softer than anything Jim’s heard from him before. There’s something in those eyes that looks like concern. 

“Drop it, Spock,” Bones says warningly.

And, with all the pig-headedness required of being part of the _Enterprise_ ’s command chain, Spock plows right on over Bones’s protests, eyebrows clenching fearsomely. “You are as much a part of the _Enterprise_ , her command crew and her heart, as are the Captain and I.” 

Bones tosses the drink, almost-empty, from hand-to-hand before replying. “True,” the doctor acquiesces with an irritable wave of his palm. He leans forward for the bottle, clearly intent on refilling his glass, but half-Vulcan reflexes beat him to his target. A second passes while the medical officer definitely chooses to pick his battles and decides that that one’s not worth fighting. He sets his glass back on the table, withdrawing, and settles for grumbling “Y’all would’ve been dead in three weeks without me.” 

Spock sets the bottle down cautiously on the table, eyeing Bones strangely. “Doctor McCoy - Leonard. You misunderstand what I am trying to say.” 

“Don’t call me Leonard. Makes me sound old.” 

“ _Leonard_ ,” Spock continues as though he had not been interrupted. “I have sensed that you think yourself a lesser part of this ship than Jim and I.” 

Oh. Shit. For the second time this evening, Jim feels something hot and unpleasant curdling in his stomach. How did the thought even _cross_ Bones’s head, surely he knows...? Even as McCoy voices his acerbic reply - “What acute senses you have, Mister Spock, however misguided they might be” - he can feel that ice prickling once again at his spine. 

“Bones -” Jim starts, not entirely clear on what he’s going to say. 

“Oh, hush now,” McCoy replies irritatedly, trying to meld himself with the back of the chair. He succeeds instead at looking irritable and surprisingly small. A cold hand clenches around Jim’s heart at the sight. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving the psych evals.” 

Spock leans forward over the table, extending his ridiculously tall torso over the tablecloth. On anyone other than Spock, the posture might have looked intimidating. On the half-Vulcan - or in this case, rather, the half-human - it only heightens the concern belied by his eyebrows, low and drawn on his face. “Doctor, to feel this way is - for lack of a better term - patently illogical.” 

“Yet human emotions ain’t logical, now are they, Mister Spock.” 

“Bones, is he -”

“Full of cow manure? Yes indeed.”

Spock looks almost childishly offended. “I contain no excrement, Doctor. As you well know, it is impossible for any carbon-based life-forms to continue to exist if their systems are clogged with such -”

“It’s an expression, Spock,” Jim explains absently. Still, his friend seems to be trying to incinerate Spock with his glare. “Bones, is he right?” 

After a long moment, the doctor growls “I plead the Fifth,” hunching down even further into his chair. 

“Bones, that’s ridiculous,” Jim tells him quietly, wondering how on earth he’d missed this. Losing Bones would be as bad as losing Spock. Where one would be his left arm, the other his right. Like trying to lead without a voice, to feel without a heart. Like trying to breathe without oxygen. Like plowing through star systems and asteroid belts without a map or compass to guide him. 

Bones snorts again. The sound is devoid of his usual dry humor, and sounds almost resigned instead. “So’s takin’ a counseling session with a bloody Vulcan.” 

“I am not sure whether I should be offended that you choose now of all times to refer to me solely by my Vulcan heritage, Leonard. Irregardless, I should point out the improbabilities of our statement. Over the last three years, the Captain and I would have suffered at minimum twelve fatalities and thirty-four further permanent injuries, if not for your presence.”

“True that,” Bones replies, shaking a finger at the two of them. “Y’all need to take better care of yourselves. Honestly, these self-sacrificing stunts are gettin’ old fast.” He downs the last drops in his cup and sets it back down with a weighted _thunk_. 

Both Spock and Jim are at a loss for words. Then, somehow, the half-Vulcan finds the right words before he does. “Doctor, I feel - I believe that I have not adequately expressed several thoughts which I should have stated earlier. I have not sufficiently shown to you...the bond, that I believe we share.” 

But Bones just waves him off. “Spock, you don’t gotta apologize for bein’ half-Vulcan. I know that stuff ain’t gonna come easily.” 

“It is not my heritage for which I am apologizing,” Spock says, and yep, that’s a Vulcan fidget. He’s practically wringing his hands on the tabletop. Jim can’t remember the last time he’s seen so much sheer distress on Spock’s face. Then again, he wasn’t awake when Khan killed him. “The manner in which I originally treated you - both of you - was abhorrent, even by Vulcan standards. Jim, ejecting you from the ship; Bones, insulting your expertise and your personality at every turn, as the Terran expression goes. Furthermore,” he continues with scary intensity directed at Bones’s face, “I did not make my withdrawals clear. Leonard, I bear no ill will toward you. In fact. I respect your proficiency in the medical profession, and...additionally, I must express...gratitude, for the manner in which -”

“Spock,” Bones cuts him off, waving his arms a bit wildly. Throughout the whole tirade, something akin to horror was burgeoning on his face. However, just as the discomfort on Bones’s face grew, so did his stature in his seat. Now, Jim notes, pleased (and a bit astounded), Bones is once more sitting straight in his chair, eyes clear where they were previously hazy. “Remember what I said down on that hell planet? Save it.” 

“Leonard, please. Clearly, I did not express adequate thanks -”

“It’s not you, it’s me, Spock.” That’s...definitely a grin growing on Bones’s face. Jim is, for lack of a more logical term, astounded. “Just me being an illogical ol’ human,” Bones waves him off again. Spock blinks. 

“Doctor, you are neither entirely illogical nor old.” 

Jim muffles a snort in his sleeve - both of those are clear deceptions. So much for Vulcans never lying. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bones says gruffly, reaching again for his empty glass, before realizing that it no longer contains alcohol and shoving it away with a small huff. “Can’t believe I’m getting complimented by a Vulcan.” 

“Yet I mean what I said.” Spock is adorably concerned. Jim fights off the urge to snap a holo-picture of the two of them, or squee. Both of their faces are _precious_.

“All right, all right, this is gettin’ kinda creepy.” 

“I did not intend -”

“ _Shove it_ , Spock,” Bones finally snaps, waving a hand over the fledging grin on his face.

Despite Spock’s clear lack of knowledge of human idioms, this one he appears to understand perfectly, and subsides with a befuddled expression. 

“Humans, eh?” Jim snickers, watching Spock’s face shift from bewilderment to fond resignation.

Spock lets the pause stretch just long enough for maximum comedic effect before shaking his head, meeting Jim’s eyes, and sighing, “Humans.” 

Neither Jim nor Bones can stop the hysterical giggles that Spock’s single word triggers.

Outside of Jim’s quarters, repairs of the _Enterprise_ are well underway. Replacement nacelles are inching ever-closer to their final positions; the guard-rails around the Mess Hall are getting scrubbed and planted; the wiring of the comm system has been welded together and shoved neatly back behind the plates of the ship’s walls; the fresh Federation torpedoes are already locked and registered in the _Enterprise_ ’s central computer system. Though his walls are still thoroughly soundproof and Jim can hear not a single word coming from the outer hull of his silver lady, he can feel the merriment of his crew as his own. 

How had he even considered Admiralty? How had he considered a life in a glass box, able to see but never touch the stars, the ships, their crews?

Closer to the inside, the lavish temporary quarters with which the Federation furnished Jim glints in the dimmed evening lighting. The couch to his eight o’clock, the uncomfortable chairs and vidscreen station to his four, the mini-bar to his seven, were all abandoned in favor of the Mess Hall-style table. On this simple style of table, Jim’s more accustomed to whipping out a set of holo-chess with Spock or people-watching with Bones. It’s more familiar than the plush lavender carpet at their feet or the expensive entertainment tech shoved to the side behind the bar. 

“A toast,” Spock proposes suddenly, jolting Jim out of his reverie. 

Spock waits patiently for McCoy to refill his glass before lifting his own cup. Technically, Jim knows, you can’t toast on _tea_ , but he’d sooner boot himself out to the dirtiest scow in this quadrant than point that out. “To the _Enterprise_ and her crew.” 

Bones dutifully lifts his cup. Jim almost toasts to that, before he decides he can do one better. “To the Triumvirate,” he proposes, eyeing them for their reactions. 

Spock arches a longsuffering eyebrow, which Jim knows is about as good as he’s going to get from the half-Vulcan. Bones, on the other hand, proves much more entertaining - he nearly chokes himself on a mouthful of air trying to keep from laughing. 

Jim tries hard not to pout. The nickname will stick, he’s sure of it. There’s something catchy about it.

(A part of him wonders if it’s Destiny.) 

“To the Triumvirate,” Spock echoes quietly, something resonating in his voice. 

“Gods help us all,” Bones sighs, glaring at both of the idiot commanding officers Destiny’s stuck him with before he, too, lifts his glass. 

With one synchronous motion, all three unlikely friends tip their heads back and swig. 

Somehow, when their cups are drained dry, all three of the _Enterprise_ ’s central command wear matching grins.


End file.
